Marry Me A Little
by Juniorstarcatcher
Summary: On a mission in the United States, Gaby Teller becomes Mrs. Napoleon Solo, leaving Illya behind to ask himself some difficult questions.


The manila envelopes slid into the hands of the three agents contain pages and pages of information, pictures, intel. Solo and Gaby breeze through them. Illya gets stuck on the first sheet, unable to get past the small black typeface that seems to shout insincerities and curses at him.

"What is this?"

Solo and Gaby stiffen at the razor edges in the Russian's voice. But Waverly replies easily, without looking up from the cup of tea he stirs with meticulous, concentric circles. The steam rises up, framing his face, which makes him look- in Illya's eyes- even more like the devil.

"Your cover. Bodyguard to Mr. And Mrs. Napoleon Solo, who are spending their honeymoon in New York. This mission requires a man and wife with impeccable American accents," he looks up from under the rim of his spectacles, "Can you do that?"

Illya wishes he knew what this fire tickling the base of his stomach was. It is a gut reaction that forces him into action, into speaking harsh, clipped words that imply worlds of thought and emotion that he isn't entirely sure he can wrap his head around.

"I can learn," Illya affirms.

It is a vow, not just a reply, and everyone in the room knows it. Waverly raises an eyebrow.

"By tomorrow?"

* * *

Illya is the first to leave the briefing room, his long legs taking him far away from Solo and Gaby and the foreign feelings clawing from the inside of his ribcage, scratching to get out. He wants to leave them behind there, to shut the door on it all. But the persistence of the little chop shop girl gets the better of him, and she pursues him.

"What was all that?" She asks, when mercifully stops.

He turns around to look at her, catching the winter air in her lungs with steady and harsh breaths. For a moment there, he thought he had gotten away with _only_ Gaby following him, but the moment he looks at her he knows that the feelings pursued him too. Feelings raw and powerful and consuming and beautiful and terrible leave metallic tastes in his mouth and a film over everything he sees. He wants a million more doses of the feeling bottled up so he might take a dose whenever he likes; he wants the feeling to disappear immediately and never return at long as he lives.

"Nothing."

* * *

They are in their suite in New York- Gaby down at the salon getting ready for the night on the town- when Napoleon decides to break the eight day silent stalemate between Illya and himself. From the day of the briefing until now, the two have not said a word. Now, as they both adjust their ties in the mirror of the luxuriously appointed water closet, Solo has the gall to speak.

"You don't trust me, do you?" He asks.

"No."

The response is immediate and stunted, detached and so tightly controlled that the effort to remain impassive manifests itself in the visible tremor wracking Illya's jaw. Condescendingly cool, tipping his head to the side conspiratorially, loving every minute of his partner's obvious suffering, Solo places a hand on Illya's shoulder- an empty show of camaraderie.

"I'll keep her safe."

Illya stares- that blank, murderous stare- at Solo until the man sheepishly retracts his hand. Then, he reaches across the counter, placing two weapons his side holsters before leaving the room, calling over his shoulder:

"No need. I will be close by."

* * *

Moments later, in the elevator, Solo watches his partner in fascination as the man pulls out a small engagement ring from his pocket for a moment before hastily shoving it away. He recognizes it from the first mission they ever went on together, and smirks. So, the Russian is a sentimental softy. Who would have guessed? Feigning distress, Solo checks his left pocket, then his right, and finally his breast pocket.

"Damn," he mutters to himself, internally reveling at the way Illya looks at him. "Say," Solo begins, looking over at Illya as if he's had a wonderful idea, "Can I borrow that ring?"

The look Solo receives sinks the joke, turning the laughter in his voice sour as he side-steps away from the man beside him.

"Never mind. I'll get one of my own."

* * *

That night, at the party, he stands along one wall, looking stoic and protective, which (of course) he is. Behind the sunglasses that are a necessary part of the bodyguard ensemble composed by Waverly, he watches Solo and Gaby working the room, their combined charm enough to stun a room full of snakes. Everytime Solo touches her, his stomach pitches uncomfortably. Not because Solo is doing anything wrong, but because he is doing everything right.

Together, _they_ are doing everything right.

"What an adorable couple," he overhears a woman say after getting a few minutes of face time with the happy couple.

Illya does not disagree.

And that makes him sick.

* * *

"You are in love with her."

Illya heard the presence beside him on the wall before it speaks, but chooses not to acknowledge it. After all, his accent would give him away at a party like this, and he is not meant to be speaking to anyone. But when the voice does speak, revealing an aging heiress with rows of perfect teeth, glittering eyes and tipsy slurs, Illya wonders why he bothered to listen to her at all.

He is not in love with Gaby.

He cannot be.

It is not possible.

"What? Don't you think so?" The woman asks in response to his silence.

Behind his sunglasses, Illya watches Gaby twirl around the ballroom like a music box ballerina. Only more perfect, more beautiful, less realistic for him to hold.

"Anyone with eyes can see it, dear."

* * *

The countdown is blaring in his ears and he knows what comes next. What he can't let happen next. His feet take him across the dance floor, where Solo is approaching Gaby for the midnight kiss.

"Three… Two…. One…"

But Illya reaches her first.

"Come. It is not safe here," he mutters, too low for anyone to hear his accent, pulling her from the room.

They disappear into the crowd of loving couples, leaving Solo very much alone, surrounded by a chorus of:

"…Happy New Year!"

Out in the garden, she turns on him like a lioness in a formal gown, her entire being beset with confusion and distress. Had something happened? If something happened, they need to contact Waverly and get Solo and-

"Illya- what are you doing?" She demands.

He is pacing, back and forth, back and forth. The energy in his chest floods straight into the rest of his body, pushing it to useless, repetitive motion. He knows that there is nothing helpful about this pacing, nothing good to it. But if he stops, he will have to face the rising tide of feeling and reality that threatens to drag him down below their crashing waves.

"It was not safe for you in there. Too many windows, anyone could have-"

Gaby lets out a harsh, humorless breath. The excuses, the lies are beginning to grow tiresome, even for a spy. If she is meant to be his, and he hers, then he must say it. She cannot wait on the end of a fishing line forever.

"Not safe for me or not safe for you?" She replies.

In life, Illya thinks, there are a few rare chances for change to occur. Most of life is a steady repetition of habit, nothing more, nothing less. This is one of those moments. The answer to that question, whatever it is, could change his destiny.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

An opportunity to change his destiny, perhaps, but an opportunity he misses. There is a brokeness to her that breaks Illya's heart, but he watches the steel in her eyes repair itself.

"No. I don't suppose you do."

* * *

That night, after the mission succeeds and they carry back thick folders full of stolen information, Gaby takes the stairs back to her room, leaving the men to share an unbearably, stiflingly awkward elevator ride back upstairs. Two floors away from theirs, Napoleon looks at his friend.

"You want my advice?"

"No," Illya says.

They ride up the last two floors in silence.

* * *

Two weeks later, they are reassigned. A new mission. A new cover.

Mr. and Mrs. Illya Kuryakin.

In the two weeks since New Years', none of the U.N.C.L.E. team has spoken to one another, not to pass the sugar or hold an elevator. Under one roof, they exist in two foreign lands. That is, until today. Illya knocks tentatively on Gaby's door with his right hand, his left hand clenched in a fist at his side.

"Enter," she calls.

He does so, and speaks before being invited, before looking at that listless gaze she trains directly upon him.

"I was a fool," he confesses.

She nods.

"Yes."

"And I am sorry."

Again, she nods.

"Yes."

He unclenches his left fist, revealing that small ring from their first mission, the one that Solo wanted to steal on New Years. It shins in Gaby's eyes, overwhelming her senses with every glisten in the light. Illya speaks with such sincerity, such bravery, that Gaby fears she might betray herself and cry.

"Would you do me the honor of being my wife?"

Rising to her feet, taking the ring from his hand and sliding it on her finger, she looks up at him, his tall form towering over her.

"On one condition," she replies.

"Anything," he begins to say.

But the entire word doesn't even get out before Gaby presses her lips to his in a satisfying, destiny altering kiss.

* * *

 **My first Gaby/Illya fic! I love writing for this pairing so very much. I wanted to try a different style of writing than I'm used to- utilizing these vignettes rather than full-blown scenes, so any feedback on the writing style would be so appreciated! Please leave kudos and comments!**


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